This is a story of a boy who is on the verge of teenage or rather 14 when he first falls in love. The girl is not the protagonist here. But after having a crush on a few more girls, he realizes that he is capable of loving not only girls but guys to...
I was on cloud nine. No. Not because I met a girl who was supposed to be my crush 3 days after this thought came to my mind. I had succeeded in attacking that round hoop in the basketball court with that substantial round orange ball. I had finally passed it through the hole. Before I tried to insinuate the entire ball games category, a familiar female voice pulled me out of my about-to-come orgasmic thoughts.
All will be thinking that it will be Somya. But it was another 10th grader. Why did I have to do everything with these god-damn 10th graders? But she was a decent, obviously, my type of girl as a bestie, who had nothing to do with the colour pink or fairies. She was another packet of melodies shoved into her casual, but fierce attitude.
"Vaibhavi di." (Di in Hindi means 'elder sister.')
"Chotu. Come on! Music practice."(Chotu is another Hindi nickname for short sighted people or younger ones.)
I was a music fan and an amazing singer. I can sing well enough to get Helen Keller to dance to my beats. I had been selected for the English solo competition for the biennial Youth Festival organised by the branch of my school where 9 schools fought for the throne. However, due to prior commitments, I had to forcibly participate in the stand-up comedy contest.
I had been acting like a moron for the past few months but now as the flood waters receded, I had successfully plucked commiseration on my state and my music teacher had reimbursed my lost vigour and passion by channelizing it towards a non-competitive music event. To me. My entire life was solely dependent on music -- more than my family.
I never realised when I had reached our Junior wing's basketball court walking and talking. (Yes, we have two wings, two basketball courts and two balls. Pun intended.) My attention which was on Vaibhavi's talk now diverted into something else.
In the glimmer of sunlight and freshness of October, there was this black beauty, a princess who had nothing to do with etiquettes or kitty parties. She was a lioness, who wanted the throne. And so she did. Amidst the many players who were boys, she flawlessly drove the basketball as if it were her part, an organ in control.
Her hair tied into a ponytail flailed behind her like the world did. She surpassed beauty, wits, courage and everything when she played. She was a fighter. She was anything but her name. Somya meant soft. This walking irony had carved herself into the perfect player and companion you needed. People said she was arrogant and proud. While I said she was honest.
I was too busy staring at her play watching the slightest details of her hair, her cursing, her blue and yellow jersey, her plans and her style. I laughed softly. This girl never let go of her style. And so I liked her for being honest. Wait did I say 'like her'? Nope. Change of thoughts.
The day passed smoothly and I was not aware of the impending disaster.
I was walking back to the senior wing all alone when I saw the basketball court full of boisterous people. But only one had my attention. I sat in the refuge of a tree and slowly sat in the solace of a reverie. I remember. I was in grade 4 when I met her. Our computer teacher was her class teacher and she had asked me to fetch chalk from her class. Somya was the cupboard in charge and a horrible one. Her closet was neat but I didn't like neat. Be it places or my mind. In 4th grade, all I could do was tease and flirt. Classic Amarsahara.
I remarked, "What a clean cupboard, cupboard Didi!" And here I woke up. From that little cupboard didi to this fierce, frisky girl. My little girl had grown big. Wow! Time changes people so much that they are beyond the point of discernment or reasoning. Tears rolled down my eyes because a fly crashed into it.
And so I spent that day, enjoying the game but my eyes were only on one player. The Lioness. I was at a vantage point but no one could see me. And so spent my day, with nostalgia and butterflies. Both in my heart and the tall grass around me. And then I spoke to myself scratching my elbow.
"Ayy. Why do these butterflies sting man? And why are they black and so minuscule?"
Hey guys. I have never been too happy to have 55 people read my story. I mean, if 55 people were to enter this room where I type I would be like, " Sir and Mam. Please leave."
Never been this thankful to my lovely readers. I hope you like this story.
I am being honest here. love is a tough thing. but live your life through my story. share it. 100 people goals. insatiable amar.
😁
Love, Amarsahara. (Should I change the bg colour? comment which one. majority votes don't matter. I will not change it. Classic Amarsahara)
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